


where all past years are

by aesphantasmal, IvyOnTheHolodeck



Series: all strange wonders [1]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Curses, Fairy Tale Elements, Fanart, Identity Porn, Identity Porn... TWO!!, Juno Steel has a heart, Other, POV Alternating, TNAminibang, Trans Peter Nureyev, but it's locked away inside a gem inside an egg inside a rabbit inside a tower, genius Rita, it's not that relevant she's just my favorite, which is to say canon-typical Rita characterization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 04:09:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29603643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesphantasmal/pseuds/aesphantasmal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvyOnTheHolodeck/pseuds/IvyOnTheHolodeck
Summary: In the land of Hyperion, where wicked queens and dragon’s fire really do exist, an apothecary squats at the end of Mattern Alley in the capital city. The building is neither tall nor short, neither sunny nor unusually dim, and its thatched roof hangs dampish over whitewashed walls. Miniature pale pink roses twine about the stems of deadly nightshade, though neither flower catches the eye so much as the dahlias in a planter by the front door, red as a beating heart.
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Series: all strange wonders [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2174940
Comments: 5
Kudos: 28
Collections: Trans Nureyev Agenda Server Minibang!





	where all past years are

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the TNA minibang and published only uhhhhh 4-5 months late, oops. Much love to aesphantasmal for the amazing art!!!

In the land of Hyperion, where wicked queens and dragon’s fire really do exist, an apothecary squats at the end of Mattern Alley in the capital city. The building is neither tall nor short, neither sunny nor unusually dim, and its thatched roof hangs dampish over whitewashed walls. Miniature pale pink roses twine about the stems of deadly nightshade, though neither flower catches the eye so much as the dahlias in a planter by the front door, red as a beating heart. 

People tell many stories of the apothecary and its owners, and some are even true. 

In Unicorn District teashops, dotty old ladies whose dogs wear plush bows on their antennae will gush about how that Miss Rita is just the most _darling_ girl, she had _just_ the thing for their partner’s cramps, but my _heavens_ , that lady she puts up with! You know, the one with the stained smock and that dreadful eyepatch, and no, I didn’t catch his name, did you? 

In the smoky depths of Valles Vicky’s house of ill repute, grizzled adventurers and portly merchants will trade tips on the city’s best consultants, since everyone knows ‘mercenary’ isn’t a polite word for shop talk. It’s a truth universally acknowledged that if you want to live through your quest, seek out ‘Cockroach’ Strong, but if you care more about success than survival, knock on the apothecary door at the end of Mattern Alley. “Best damn archer I’ve ever met,” they say. “You’ll know the lady when you see him.”

Beneath the Old Town Bridge, you may hear scruffy young people out to seek their fortune whisper of the apothecary’s mistress with hope and alarm in equal parts. They say he’ll help any soul who seeks his aid, that his tinctures can heal any burn or repel any curse, for the right price.

What no one will tell you, though, is his name.

This isn’t because the lady enjoys anonymity, mind you. In another life, he’d carry his name like the chainmail breastplate his mother bequeathed to him, battered and rusted and repaired a thousand times. Some things, though, are beyond his control.

And, well. Rita calls him ‘Boss’ and Mick calls him ‘pal’ and there’s not anyone else to talk to, is there?

At least, that’s how he’s always lived.

~

It all starts when the lady finds an attractive noble in his storeroom.

“Rita, why is there an attractive noble in my storeroom?”

Rita makes shrill and indignant noises from the front room to the effect that well it ain’t her fault that she’s so busy when she’s left alone in charge of the store and these coins ain’t going to sort themselves, you know, so really he should be glad that she sped up the process and just let the nice man in to look through their inventory on his own. They both know the truth, however, that while Rita may be a genius artificer, she tends to become silly when a pretty person bats their eyelashes at her. And in Rita’s defense, the noble in question is _really_ attractive. 

The nobleman is built like a rapier: thin, sharp, and unnecessarily ornate. He leans against the stone wall with a vulpine smile, a mantle of black cascading over the embroidered roses bursting across his doublet. 

In the lady’s experience, three types of people frequent his shop. Most common are those who are harmless but believe themselves dangerous. Those rarely make it past the first challenge in a true quest and are useful only in the size of their purses. The second group are those who are powerful but don’t believe themselves so. Here gather the miller’s sons, the third daughters, the cursed farmers and the unwitting changelings. The lady often hires himself as a guide for such folk, as they’re destined to succeed in their endeavors and often end up wealthy and grateful. The third group, however, concerns him most. There lie folk who know just how deadly they can be.

The nobleman, naturally, belongs to the third category. Rather to his chagrin, the lady finds his heart auditioning as a dancer in a fairy ring. Perhaps he can’t blame Rita for letting the man in after all.

“Good day, fair maiden,” the nobleman says, sweeping a bow.

The lady snorts. “Sorry, neither.”

The nobleman’s eyes glint. “Of course, my apologies, my lady. Might I have the honor of your name?”

“You break into my supplies and then demand I identify myself? Sorry, pal, this building was specifically designated to me and Rita by the King. The only royal privilege you have here is that of being a royal pain in my ass.”

The nobleman’s smile only grows more predatory. “There are worse things to be.”

The lady spends a moment kicking himself for walking into that one. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

Pushing off the wall, the nobleman sweeps into a deep bow. “Rex Glass, Duke of Rose.” A few strands of Rex’s glossy hair brush the lady’s arm as he straightens. The lady grits his teeth against the warmth in his face and stands his ground. This is why he doesn’t like to welcome patrons in the storeroom - there isn’t enough space for a pegasus foal to flap, let alone for two grown adults to stand without being far closer together than propriety dictates. Not, of course, that the lady cares much for propriety. And given how the Duke looms over him, neck craned to avoid the low ceiling, he doesn’t either.

“Enlightening,” the apothecary snarks. “So, your grace, what can I do for you?”

“Now that I’ve identified myself, perhaps you could give me the name of the loveliest lady in the city?”

“Lady Knight Alessandra Strong,” he says without missing a beat. “But don’t tell her I said so.”

Rex sighs mightily, pressing his manicured hand to his breast with rather more drama than necessary. “If you are so determined to have me languish in ignorance, I suppose I shall just have to call you Dahlia after those lovely blooms by your door.”

The lady - or Dahlia, as he is now known - rolls his eyes. “You actually here to buy something?”

“Of course, where are my manners. I’ve heard you make the best burn balm in the kingdom. My aunt had a bit of a sunbathing accident. Her radiation sickness is quite severe.”

“Don’t you have palace doctors for that sort of thing?”

Rex bats his eyelashes. “Rumor has it you’re far more skilled in such arts.”

“Huh.” The lady turns to the shelves to hide the skepticism on his face. So the guy’s doctor is incompetent. That’s probably why he’s come all the way to Hyperion seeking help - it isn’t seemly for the gentry to acknowledge that their staff are a bunch of sycophantic blowhards. “So that’ll be witch hazel for pain relief, aloe vera to soothe the skin, firefly tears to extract the damage-“

“Can fireflies cry?” asks the Duke, intrigued.

“Course they can, just gotta sit them down with a pint and tell them about my childhood.”

He describes the ingredients as he collects them, smacking away Rex’s curious fingers as he reaches for the nettles, the snake’s foot, the moon-plucked wormwood. Maybe his hands linger on Rex’s a little longer than necessary. Maybe he lets Rex press a little too close as he pounds the ingredients together. 

Maybe, when he finishes wrapping the poultices in linen and bat’s wool, he looks up at Rex and says he’ll be at Vicky’s that night if Rex wants to buy him a drink.

Why shouldn’t he, after all? Rex is a duke, and he’s just a hedge witch who moonlights as a mercenary. Nobles may dally with commoners like him, but they’ll never make anything of it. He knows this for a fact, and he’s tried to convince his best friend Mick of it many times, but Mick insists on mooning after that twit Lady Zolatovna.

The point is, he can slip into his best gown, paint his lips with berries, and go to Vicky’s tingling with anticipation of Rex’s clever fingers. No big deal. No strings attached.

He isn’t at all surprised when Rex kisses him goodbye the next morning, saddling his gleaming mare Ruby and saying he needs to be off, that his aunt needs the burn treatment forthwith. He returns to his business, grumbles as Rita begs him for details, and goes about his day ignoring the aching of his body and his heart.

Therefore, he can hardly be blamed for choking on his coffee when he arrives at work a week later to find Rex waiting for him with a bouquet, a picnic basket, and a bright smile.

~

Dahlia is unlike anyone Nureyev has ever met.

He’s sharp as the ragged edge of a broken blade, righteous as destiny itself. He cracks out one-liners, always talking, always so brutally honest and yet somehow managing never to give a thing away about his own history. Nureyev admires his skill at obfuscation. He’s rarely seen secrets held so completely, as though even Dahlia doesn’t notice the gaps in his own backstory.

So naturally, Nureyev investigates.

Miss Rita, of course, is his first potential source of information. At the beginning of his and Dahlia’s fourth date - not that Nureyev’s counting - Dahlia disappears into the shop’s backroom, saying he reeks of kelpie spawn and needs to freshen up. Nureyev wanders casually over to Miss Rita’s desk, craning his neck over the bushels of papers and beaded cords and leather-bound books to find her scribbling away. He clears his throat. 

“In a sec, Boss,” she says, swatting at him without looking up. Her elbow swings alarmingly close to the candle perched atop a pile of parchment. “I almost got these energies aligned.”

“I’m afraid I’m not the one you’re expecting,” Nureyev says. 

Rita blinks up at him and beams. “Oh! You’re that Duke fella the boss has been steppin’ out with! It’s real nice to meet you again, your grace.”

“Please, call me Rex. I hope I’m not bothering you.”

“Wellllll,” she says, drawing the word out. “Only if you aren’t about to tell me all the details of the date you’re taking the boss on.”

No mention of Dahlia’s name. Well, Nureyev hadn’t truly thought it would be that easy. He bats his eyelashes, swooning for Rita’s sake. “It’s quite romantic, I _must_ say. He’s promised to take me to a garden near where he grew up.”

Rita’s face falls. Nureyev keeps his besotted expression locked in place, despite his surprise. Of all the reactions he’d been expecting, _hurt_ wasn’t one. “Oh,” she says, much more subdued. “Been telling you all about his childhood, has he?”

“Not - really,” Nureyev says. “Just bits here and there.”

Rita huffs and glares back at her paper. “Hope you two have lotsa fun then. Sittin’ around and tellin’ each other all about yourselves. Now if you don’t mind, I gotta finish this charm for Mx. Proust’s chicken coop, it’s a real doozy.”

“Protection magic is finicky,” Dahlia says, appearing behind her. Nureyev’s mouth goes dry. Dahlia’s violet surcoat leaves very little to the imagination. “The parameters of what it’s protecting need to be set clearly, so the enchantment knows what can get in, what can’t, and what to do when they overlap.”

“Oh!” Rita says, perking back up. “I get it! Like when I’m drawing an alchemist circle and if I want light but not heat I gotta draw the fire symbol but anchor it with something to take away the heat!”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

“Remarkable, my dear Dahlia,” Nureyev says, slipping up next to him and wrapping an arm around his waist. “Wherever did you learn such things?”

For the briefest moment, a wrinkle appears between Dahlia’s eyes, but he quickly shakes it off with a snort. “Whole damn kingdom’s run on magic, Rex, even I picked up a thing or two. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

And so it goes. Nureyev interviews barmaids and blacksmiths, wheelwrights and weavers, adventurers and armourers, and not a single one can give him a clue to Dahlia’s identity. Dahlia, who makes him want to believe in goodness in the world. Dahlia, who runs hot and cold, kissing him tenderly one day and looking at him with blank eyes the next. Dahlia, who bewitches him. 

Once upon a time he’d have thought it impossible, but if Dahlia were to tell Nureyev his real name, Nureyev knows he would return the favor.

~

Weeks turn into months. Rex never stays long, saying he’s needed back at the duchy, that his aunt has summoned him home. Every time he leaves, the lady tells himself this is the last time he’ll see Rex, that he shouldn’t hope he’ll return.

The lady really ought to know better than to hope Rex will return. 

He’s been through this before. Diamond, Lisa, even Alessandra for a while. Get laid, get attached, get dumped. He’s not the kind of person that people want to spend their lives with, and that’s fine. He’s fine. Rex will vanish eventually, and he’ll be here. Hey, at least Rita probably won’t leave. After all, the goddamn deed to the building is in her name.

But Rex isn’t making things easier by pushing for them to talk. 

“Dahlia, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“You dying?”

Rex exhales in irritation. “No, but-“

“Murdered someone recently? Permanently traumatized them?”

“ _No_ , but-”

“Then it can wait till I’m done with this batch of liquid fire. Rita!”

Whatever Rex wants to tell him - and he’s got a pretty good idea - he doesn’t want to hear it. If it’s about feelings, it’ll just speed up the disintegration of their courtship, and he’s selfish enough to want to delay that. If it’s about why the local pickpockets seem better fed, sharper eyed, and lighter fingered every time Rex comes to town, well, he’d rather have plausible deniability the next time Sheriff Hijikata hauls him in for questioning. 

~

It ends - or perhaps it begins - with a squabble so absurd Nureyev barely believes it himself. “Dahlia, there is simply no way the dragon came before the egg. Eggs are a basic structure found throughout the world, while dragons are a single species. The egg, then, must surely be the basal trait.”

Dahlia waves a pinecone in his direction before dropping it into the wicker basket of potion ingredients they’ve already collected. “But if the whole world is made of magic, and magic needs an energy source to work, then the first eggs can’t pre-date the origin of energy. Any sage’ll tell you that was when a dragon breathed the sun into the sky.” 

Nureyev’s knees creak as he crouches to scrape spines off a bearded tooth mushroom from a stump. “And where, pray tell, did the dragon originate?”

“Fucked if I know, why don’t you ask one?”

Nureyev bites his tongue to keep from saying that he could, in fact, do just that. No doubt Buddy would arch a dry eyebrow at him, but she’s been in a good mood ever since Dahlia’s radiation balm treated the worst of her burns. Which, unto itself, is proof that Dahlia hasn’t a clue what he’s talking about. “Dragons can sunburn too, you know. How could that be if they’d breathed the sun into the sky?”

“And humans’ll go blind if they get splashed in the eye with stomach acid. Just ‘cause it comes from you doesn’t mean it can’t hurt you. Trust me, Ma told me that _all_ the time.” Dahlia coaxes a salamander out of a knot in one of the trees, holds a phial up to its snout, and dusts it lightly with pepper to make it sneeze. 

Nureyev watches as the dappled light of the forest falls across the regal bones of Dahlia’s face. “You’re vexing.”

“Took you this long to realize?”

“I am a touch biased, of course, given how I love you.”

Dahlia goes very still, his back to Nureyev. Nureyev’s stomach sinks as the silence stretches longer and longer. He and Dahlia have been courting for nearly a year. The way Dahlia lights up whenever he walks in the apothecary door, he’d assumed they were on the same page about their feelings.

Cool as the creek trickling just past the tree line, Dahlia says, “What was that?”

“That I love you, dearest.”

Another pause, then Dahlia turns back to him and shakes his head, brow furrowed. “Still didn’t catch that. What did you say?”

“You needn’t play games if the sentiment is not mutual,” Nureyev says, his voice stiff. 

“What games?”

“These crude attempts at pretending you haven’t heard my confession. I thought you a better liar than this, Dahlia.”

“The hell are you talking about?” Dahlia demands, his voice rising. “You haven’t said anything.”

“I said that I love you!”

Dahlia’s eye widens, something like awe passing across his face. Then his gaze goes vacant, his jaw slack. A chill washes over Nureyev. After an intolerable moment, Dahlia shakes his head and says, aggrieved, “Say again?”

“Dear,” Nureyev says slowly, “what on earth was that?”

“What, the question? You can’t blame my hearing for going, Rex, it’s your own fault for playing the hurdy-gurdy with Rita at all hours.”

“Dahlia, I adore you with all of my heart.”

Dahlia looks like he’s been smacked in the face, that same shock and hope making him all the more radiant. And then again it’s wiped from his face, and he shakes his head. “You what? I missed that.”

Nureyev’s heart constricts as many things begin to fall into place. Dahlia’s inexplicable magical expertise, his vague childhood, the way he won’t - can’t? - even speak his own name.

Nureyev takes a deep breath. “Are you quite aware that you’re under a curse?”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes this is the first part of a series, yes I will (probably) write the rest of it once I finish getting my heart stomped on by TMA, yes I (Ivy) am a mess who took forever to publish this. Let me know if you'd like to see where the story goes!


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